


Angel

by annamatopia



Category: Bones (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 10:38:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annamatopia/pseuds/annamatopia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My name is Castiel, and I'm an angel of the Lord."</p>
<p>That hardly goes over well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angel

Booth’s first clue is hardly the way the man is dressed. FBI agents don’t get to wear their ties loose and crooked, and that coat is hardly department regulation. One glance and they’d be all over him. (Booth should know—he’s been through enough altercations with the department on behalf of his cocky belt buckle.)

It isn’t even the way the man carefully flips open his badge and announces, “Eddie Moscone, FBI.” Sometimes new agents don’t get the fluid act of flashing the badge, but the lack of an older partner should’ve been a clue.

But there is something about the way Eddie Moscone clenches his fists and braces his shoulders as he climbs to the platform, as if he already knows what he’s going to find. Booth wants to lay a hand on his shoulder, offer words of encouragement, just do something about the vulnerability he sees not only in the man’s face but also in his posture and movement.

That’s the instant he realizes Eddie Moscone is not really FBI, but he doesn’t step forward with the handcuffs. Instead, he watches, mesmerized, as Trenchcoat approaches the body with something like trepidation. He reaches out with a shaking hand towards the decomposing shoulder, hand shaking, and seems oblivious to Bones flailing behind him. The moment stretches on until Trenchcoat touches the shoulder, lays his whole hand on the body without a hint of revulsion. Bones punches him and shouts about corrupting evidence and not wearing gloves, but Booth is enraptured. He can’t tear his eyes away.

When the man withdraws his hand and lifts his chin, his face is alight with such joy that Booth nearly weeps at the sight.

“It is not Dean,” Trenchcoat says, his voice low and filled with awe.

At his words, Booth snaps out of his reverie. Damn. What is he thinking? This man is clearly not FBI, has clearly broken several federal laws in coming here and touching that body. “Excuse me, Mr. Moscone?” he says, one hand on the cuffs in his pocket.

Trenchcoat tilts his head at a ridiculous angle, then steps off the platform. “I do not see arrest in my foreseeable future, Agent Booth,” he says. 

Booth stares. It’s almost as if Trenchcoat can read his mind—

“My name is Castiel,” Trenchcoat says, “and I am an Angel of the Lord.” He peers at Booth, head tilted and eyebrows drawn together in a manner that reminds him of Bones when he makes a pop reference she doesn’t get.

“I—what?” Booth opens and closes his mouth several times. An angel? Really? He barely registers Bones prodding him and clanking his handcuffs, telling him to arrest him already, Booth, he corrupted my evidence!

Castiel stiffens, drops both hands to his sides, and steps off the platform. One of the light bulbs blows out. “I believe Sam is calling. Please excuse me.” Then, with a small flutter, like the sound of wings before flight, Castiel vanishes.

Booth spends the rest of the day debating the existence of angels with Bones, who is certain they were all forcefully fed a hallucinogenic drug, and trying to reconcile Castiel and the trenchcoat with white robes and fear not.

He fails at both.


End file.
